The Door in the Wall (2 page)

Robin examined for the hundredth time the carvings on the hammer beams supporting the roof of the hall. Each one was an angel with feathered wings. He studied one by one the grotesque carvings of dwarfs that decorated the roof bosses, and the corbels finishing the doorway. He wearied of thinking about them and wished that Ellen would come.

Robin’s bedchamber was off the main hall or living room of the house, in an embrasure of the thick wall. Like the hall, Robin’s room was somewhat chapel-like, for the houses of the time of Edward the III of England were very little different from churches.

Afternoon sounds came into the room: people passing along the street to and from the shops in Cheapside or Poultry Lane; carters carrying goods to the wharves on the Thames, Belinsgate, or Queen Hythe. He heard children playing games, hoodman-blind and hide-and-seek. He wished he could have been among them, because he knew a secret nook where he always hid and where he was seldom discovered. It was down. Honey Lane in the angle of a jutting wall near Black Friars entry. It was so small a space that it appeared to be no space at all. It was still his own secret.

Robin tried very hard to get out of bed so he might look
out of the window, but he only fell back again onto the pillow exhausted from the effort. Hunger bit at his empty stomach. He was hungry enough now to have eaten the porridge Ellen had brought him.

He listened, hoping to hear her footsteps in the passage, but the house was strangely silent. No sound of talk or laughter came from the hall, for most of the servants and retainers had gone either with his father, Sir John de Bureford, or with his mother, the Lady Maud. Robin called for Ellen, and when he had no answer, called for Jon-the-Cook, then for old Gregory, the gardener.

He listened again, holding his breath, but he heard no one, and saw not a soul from Nones to Vespers, when the bells began to ring again.

He was alone.

Just as the bells stopped ringing Robin heard a noise as of a door opening. Then someone mounted the stair and came along the passage. Perhaps it was one of the boys; but not likely, for whoever it was walked rather slowly instead of running, as William or Thomas or John would have done.

The footsteps turned toward the chamber. In the door-way stood a monk with a basket. He came toward the bed where Robin lay.

“Good eve, my son,” he said. “I am Brother Luke, a wandering friar, newly come to St. Mark’s. I have brought thee food, and, cause ’tis Friday, fish.”

Fish!
Robin’s stomach took a sudden turn. But a good smell came from the covered basket Brother Luke carried, and he was hungry. So he smiled a welcome, and the friar explained how he had happened to know that Robin needed help.

“A poor widow, who twice a week is fed from our hospice, told me of thy need. She said that Dame Ellen, who
lately served thee, has this very day been taken of the plague. She it was who told us that all thy servants, too, are fled, because of the plague, and some are dead of it. Dame Ellen told thee not, pitying thee. Now, be a good lad and take thy supper.”

He obediently ate what the friar fed him.

When he was fed, Brother Luke, who had talked quietly the while, fetched water in a basin, washed him, and in other ways made him comfortable. He took the rumpled sheets off the bed, then sat down to rub Robin’s legs and back. While he rubbed, he spoke.

“It is well known that thy noble father hath of his goodness given money to St. Mark’s. So to St. Mark’s I’ll take thee, and will care for thee in mine own quarters, because all other beds and places are already taken by those in the parish who have great need. Even the corridors are filled and the cloisters lined with pallets.”

“But I cannot walk,” said Robin woefully. “See you, my two legs are as useless as if they were logs of wood. How shall I go there? My father is with the King at the Scottish wars, and with him are all his men at arms. My lady mother has been commanded to attend upon Her Majesty the Queen. It is supposed by them that I am now page in the household of Sir Peter de Lindsay at his castle in the north. John-the-Fletcher was to have come for me in March, before the Feast of St. Gregory. Instead, a messenger came on that day to say that he had been set upon by thieves and lay wounded in the hospice at Reading. He came later to fetch me, but found me thus, unable to walk or ride. He brought a surgeon who said I had not the plague but some other malady. He told Ellen to feed me well and that he would return. He came not again nor did John-the-Fletcher.”

“Alas,” said Brother Luke sadly, “because of the plague
all the physicians are working night and day. Either he himself has been taken or he has been so busy caring for others he has not been able to return. As for John-the-Fletcher, he may have gone out the city gate and not been allowed to re-enter, for they are keeping strangers out now. Fear not for the manner of our going to St. Mark’s. Tethered in the courtyard is a jennet ready saddled with blankets whereon thou’lt ride softly. Walking beside thee, I shall support thee, and so we shall go through Knightrider Street and Giltspur to Ludgate and then toward Smoothfield where stands St. Mark’s. Dost remember the long wall that is about the garden of thy father’s house?”

“Yes, ” said Robin, “of course. Why?”

“Dost remember, too, the wall about the Tower or any other wall?” Robin nodded. “Have they not all a door somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Robin again.

“Always remember that,” said the friar. “Thou hast only to follow the wall far enough and there will be a door in it.”

“I will remember,” Robin promised, but he wasn’t sure that he knew what Brother Luke meant to say.

While he was speaking, the friar had been caring for Robin, easing his tired muscles, and making him clean and comfortable. He opened a large chest and found underlinen and hosen, a hood with a long peak, and a warm cloak.

“The evening damp creeps up from the Thames,” said the friar, pulling the hosen over Robin’s shrunken legs, “and though the days are longer now, it is still early in the season. Good English wool will keep thee warm. Now for the hood.” He pulled the hood down over Robin’s head and settled it around his shoulders while he held him against his coarse-woven monk’s frock.

Then Brother Luke put his strong arms under Robin, hoisted him onto his back, carrying the bundle of Robin’s clothes and the basket in one hand and steadying Robin with the other. Down they went through the great echoing hall, down the winding stair at the other end past the empty kitchens, and out into the courtyard. There stood the little Spanish horse, Jenny, just as Brother Luke had said, patiently waiting.

Brother Luke set Robin on the jennet, the robe and blankets around him making him comfortable. Brother Luke put a strap around Robin’s waist, then ran it under the jennet’s belly to keep him from falling. He tied the bundle on at the back, and they set forth.

Out through the door in the wall of the courtyard they went, into the street, Robin leaning against Brother Luke, and the jennet picking her way sedately over the cobbles.

There were not many people abroad, for it was the end of the day. Curfew was ringing as they turned up Creed Lane to Ludgate Hill, and only because the guard knew Brother Luke’s habit were they allowed to pass through the city gate. By then they were more than halfway to the hospice, but it was nearly dark when they reached St. Mark’s and were admitted by the porter at the postern gate.

“Will I go back home soon?” asked Robin fearfully, for the gate had clanged shut behind them as if it had been closed forever. “Will a message be sent to my father? Or to my mother?”

“Be comforted, my child,” Brother Luke answered. “As soon as the plague is somewhat quieted in London, a messenger will be sent to thy father. Meanwhile, we shall care for thee.” He lifted Robin and carried him to his own cell and put him on the narrow cot. “Now, rest, my son,” he said.

M
AY
came in with a burst of bloom in hedge and field. There was hawthorn both pink and white, and primroses and buttercups carpeted the fields with yellow.

In every garden wallflowers blossomed in bright color and filled the air with perfume.

For days Robin was cared for as if he were a little child.

Brother Luke brought him food, kept him washed, and changed his clothes, but he was too much occupied with other things to stay with Robin for very long at a time. The hells clamored as loudly as ever, but now the sound was associated with the regular procession of the monks going to devotions.

Robin grew to like it.

He began to sleep well on the hard cot and to feel at home in the little cell. He could see nothing but the sky through the small wind hole, for it was high in the stone wall and only in the early morning allowed a ray of sunshine to come in. Against another wall stood a prayer stool and desk combined, with a smaller one beside it. On the wall hung a little cupboard which held Brother Luke’s few personal belongings and his breviary.

Robin couldn’t see into the corridor, and at first couldn’t identify all the sounds he heard. He liked the “s-s-sh-shing” sound of feet on stone, as the monks passed to and fro. Sometimes, when they passed in procession, chanting, he joined in
the singing, for most of the plain songs were known to him. Sometimes there were long silences, when he heard nothing but the mewing of the cat Millicent, or the squeaking of a mouse she had caught.

There were hundreds of people within the hospice, but they were separated by thick walls and long passages. The outer court was far away at the other side of the monastery. There, visiting pilgrims, knights at arms, merchants, and minstrels gathered, each awaiting the attention of the Prior. Because there were few inns, the monasteries were open for the entertainment of wayfarers, rich and poor alike. Besides that portion reserved for travelers there was an almonry overflowing with the poor of London, seeking food and clothing. St. Mark’s was a busy place. But most of the activity was far away from Robin. He was much alone, and time seemed long.

One day Brother Luke said, “It is time now to try thee
sitting up.” He was rubbing Robin’s legs as he did every day, talking the while. “If thy hands are busy, time will pass more quickly. Dost like to whittle?”

“Of course,” answered Robin. “Who does not? But I have nought to whittle.”

“I shall find thee a piece of soft pine and will lend thee my knife. ’Tis sharp and of good steel. This bench will fit against thy back to support thee.” Brother Luke set the oaken bench at Robin’s back and fitted a cushion for his comfort.

“Can I make a boat?” asked Robin. “Can I make it now?”

Brother Luke nodded and left the cell. It seemed long before he returned.

Finally he brought the knife and the piece of pine he had promised. It felt smooth and clean to Robin’s hands, and he liked to watch the small white shavings peel off. At first he scarcely knew where to begin to bring out the shape of a boat, but little by little it began to round out and at one end a point began to appear, as if it had been a prow.

“Perhaps I can make it into a sailing boat like the fishermen bring to Belin’s gate, or a barge such as the King uses,” he said. “Perhaps when it is done I will be able to walk, and can go to the Thames to sail it.”

“Perhaps,” agreed the friar. It was very exciting, but Robin had to stop often to rest.

Brother Luke brought soup in which dark bread was to be sopped. Robin didn’t want any of it. He wanted only to go on with his whittling, and turned away from the food.

“But ’tis made of good mutton in which bay and marigold have been seethed,” Brother Luke coaxed. “Brother Michael grows these fragrant herbs in the garden. Bay is tasty and gives good appetite; marigold is said to be of value against poor sight and angry words. It is said ’twill draw evil
humors out of the head, and the flowers make fair garlands for maidens because of their golden color.”

What cared Robin for garlands for maidens? What cared he for fragrant herbs? Soppy food he despised. Brother Luke looked patient, said nothing, but continued to hold the food ready, and Robin gave in. He drank the soup and ate the bread dry.